Copia was designed to leave such an impression. The rest of Jebinose might be economically and culturally backward, but Copia had a medical center, a psi-school, a university, a museum of Vanek artifacts, and a huge sports arena.
DeBloise’s office overlooked the northern quarter of Copia; its outer corner pointed toward the graceful spire that marked the university campus. Delicate violet and yellow-striped tendrils of Nolevetol deng grass intertwined across the floor, forming a thick, soft, living rug. Exotic plants climbed three corners of the room; a huge desk, its entire top surface made of solid Maratek firewood, filled the fourth.
DeBloise sat behind that desk. Holographs of his wife and two children were prominently arrayed before him, but his eyes were on the latest in the morning’s long procession of visitors and supplicants.
Henro Winterman, a leader of one of the sector’s larger merchant combines, didn’t fit deBloise’s image of a merchant. Merchants should be porcine and endomorphic; this one was lean and lupine. And vaguely arrogant. But his pompous air carried a wheedling undertone. Winterman’s group and others like it had formed a strong pro-deBloise base in the sector’s business community. They had helped significantly in elevating him to initial prominence in interstellar politics, but he had gone on from there without their help. And at this point Winterman was not too sure of his footing with the man who was now so closely identified with the Restructurist movement.
“It seems that my associates are growing just a little bit impatient, sir,” he said with the perfect blend of impudence and deference. “We’ve actively backed you for a good number of years now and we don’t seem to be getting anywhere. The sector continues to wallow in an economic slump and, very frankly, sir, none of us is getting any younger.”
“So?” deBloise said with raised eyebrows and a completely neutral tone.
Certain economic considerations had been implied when they had offered their support for his initial campaign to go to the Federation as a Restructurist. Somewhat less than two standard decades had passed since then and apparently some of the merchants thought the bill was past due. It irritated deBloise to the point of fury that Winterman should have the audacity to approach him in this manner, but he checked himself and limited his reply to the noncommittal monosyllable. The time had not yet come when he could loose his rage on Winterman, but that time was coming… it was coming. Until it arrived, he could not allow anything to erode his power base.
“Well,” Winterman said slowly when it became obvious that deBloise was waiting to hear more, “my associates and I are quite concerned about the indigenous economic integrity of our sector.”
DeBloise had to smile at that: Indigenous economic integrity.
What an ingenious phrase! It meant nothing, really, but was infinitely malleable. DeBloise had used a number of similar phrases and catchwords on his way up; they were indispensable to the political process when it was necessary to create an issue.
Interpreting the smile as encouragement, Winterman hurried on. “We know the Restructurist movement is sympathetic to our goal of eliminating outside commercial interests from the sector, and we know it’s just a matter of time before the movement achieves dominance in the Fed Assembly and gives us the backing we need, but there is a bit of an economic lag in the sector and we were wondering how long–”
“Not too much longer, Henro,” deBloise said with hearty confidence and one of his best public smiles.
But beneath the smile he was snarling. He saw the merchant as a filthy, greedy, moneygrubbing parasite and knew exactly what he and the other members of the merchant combine meant by the “indigenous economic integrity of the sector”: they wanted a monopoly on all trade in and out of the sector. None of the members was skilled or talented enough to achieve that goal either as an individual or as part of a collective. So – they were looking for a little Federation muscle to help them. But the LaNague Charter prohibited any and all interference in the economy by the Federation. Thus their support of deBloise and Restructurism. Strange bedfellows, indeed.
Speaking continuously as he moved, he rose and expertly guided Winterman out of the office. With his hand on the man’s shoulder, he assured him of his deep sympathy and concern for his predicament and of his firm intention to do all he could for him just as soon as the Movement made some headway toward changing the charter. He also made a point of reminding him that if that day was ever to come, it would require the continued support of such model citizens as Henro Winterman and his fellow merchants.
DeBloise glanced questioningly at his receptionist as the waiting room door slipped closed behind Winterman.
“You’re ahead of schedule, sir,” she said, knowing what was on his mind. “That reporter isn’t due until ten-point-five.”
He nodded and returned to his inner office. A mirthless smile warped his lips as he waited for the chair to adjust to his posture in a semi-reclining position. It never ceased to amaze him how much a part greed played in politics. That, at least, was something he was well insulated against, thank the Core. The deBloise name had been synonymous with wealth on Jebinose for generations; his personal fortune was more than he could hope to spend in two lifetimes.
No, Elson deBloise had more important concerns than money, but that didn’t mean he would renege on his promise to use whatever power he achieved after the Haas plan came to fruition to aid Winterman’s crowd. He’d be delighted to help them gain a stranglehold on trade in the sector, absolutely delighted.
And soon, as Restructurist control of the Federation increased as it inevitably must after they achieved their beachhead – the Jebinose trade cartel and others like it would find themselves under direct supervision of the newly restructured Federation. The real power over the human sector of Occupied
Space would then be where it belonged – with the new Fed president, Elson deBloise.
Money as an incentive? Never! Then what was his incentive? DeBloise’s mind had developed numerous diversionary tactics to deal with that question. Most of them were quite ingenious. But every once in a while his defenses collapsed and the inescapable truth leaked through: rich and influential men entered politics for one reason… power. Lower class nobodies became politicos with the power motive in mind, too, but it was often diluted by a drive for prestige and the financial advantages that so often attend the acquisition of public office. Being moneyed and respected at the start, however, left only power as a goal.
The quest for dominion over other men’s lives was not necessarily an evil thing if, after achieving that dominion, it was used toward certain beneficial ends.
DeBloise had repeated this to himself so many times that by now he actually believed it, and the thought that a good many people might not share his vision for the human race did not bother him in the least. He would override their opinions and in the end they would see that it was all for their own good.
As his mind reflexively skittered away from any in-depth analysis of the moral implications of his life’s work, his eyes came to rest on the holographs of his wife and children on the desktop.
His daughter was on the left: a pretty brunette with some wild tendencies. These were presently being curbed – he wanted no bad publicity involving his family.
Rhona, his wife, was in the middle. She too was a brunette, although she weighed more now than she did in the holo. Their offspring has been limited to two – one of each sex – at deBloise’s insistence; it made for a perfectly balanced family portrait. Rhona had been the eldest daughter of another rich Jebinose family, and two fortunes, as well as two people, had been united at their wedding. They were husband and wife now in name only, however. They slept in separate quarters at night and led separate lives by day; only on public record and in the public eye were they married. Both seemed content with the situation as it was.
He had never loved Rhona. At one time he thought he might someday grow to love her, but as his rise in politics began to accelerate, the discrepancies between the publi
c deBloise and the private Elson widened. And he found that he preferred the role of the public deBloise, a role he could not play with any conviction in Rhona’s presence. She’d known him since adolescence, knew all his fears, fantasies, and idiosyncrasies. In her eyes, he would never be the wonderful man who was the public deBloise, and so he avoided her.
The homely face of his son, Elson III, filled the third and final holo. He was proud of Els – just fourteen, president of his class and active in the Young Restructurists Club. He encouraged his son in these activities, for he’d found them invaluable in his own youth. Through being a class officer and the head of committees, you learned how to handle people, how to get them involved in projects, how to get them to work for you.
His son would start at the university next year, and that brought back a swarm of memories for deBloise. He had never planned on going into politics, aiming rather for a long life devoted to being very idle and very rich. Something during his years of higher education had sparked him, however. He didn’t remember exactly what it was, perhaps some of those Restructurist-oriented professors who were so openly critical of the Federation, spending entire class periods in an overt attempt to sway developing minds toward their point of view. Perhaps young Elson deBloise had sensed a path to power within the philosophy of political interventionism.
He entered the political sphere soon after graduation, not as a Restructurist, however. Restructurism was irrelevant then as a philosophy in lower-echelon politics on Jebinose. His name and his position made him welcome in the inner circles of the local machine where he quickly identified the movers and the shakers. He made the right connections, spoke up for the right causes at key affairs, and finally gained enough leverage to be nominated to the Jebinose Senate.
Even as he made his maiden speech before that august body, he was planning the moves that would take him to Fed Central. Jebinose was not yet in the Restructurist fold, was not in any fold, for that matter. The planet was situated near some of the major trade lanes, yet did little trading. There was little there to interest anyone: no drugs, technological hardware, or chemicals – just those damn Vanek artifacts, and a single shipload could handle a year’s output.
So, traders rarely stopped at Jebinose. It was a fact of life. But coupled with the current slow, steady decline of the planet’s economy, that fact of life held great potential as a political issue of interstellar scale. To transform it into such an issue would require some fancy footwork and what his advisers referred to as “the old reverse.”
This is how it would work: It was obvious to anyone vaguely familiar with Jebinose and elementary economics that major traders didn’t stop there because it had a simple agrarian economy with nothing to trade. To make an important political issue of that, you merely inverted the situation: Jebinose had a poor, simple agrarian economy because the traders refused to stop there; if the traders could be made to stop and deal with Jebinose, the planet would undergo an industrial and economic boom. And that’s why Jebinose needs a Restructurist working for her at Federation Central.
You couldn’t spring this on the populace de novo, of course. You had to spend a few years laying the groundwork in the media, dropping phrases like “functional trade sanction” whenever asked about the Jebinose economy, and continuing to utilize the phrase until it was picked up by others. After it had been repeated often enough, it would be accepted as matter-of-fact truth. And if they could accept that amorphous phrase, then they would have no trouble swallowing “the old reverse.”
Used properly, that would be the issue to launch him into interstellar politics. But until the foundation had been properly laid, he must cast around for local issues to keep himself prominently displayed before the public.
And that was when some minor public official suggested that there was too much discrimination against the Vanek in the rural areas where they lived. DeBloise and the other Restructurists in the Jebinose Senate jumped on the idea, and the Vanek Equality Act was soon making its way through the legislature. Elson deBloise, more than anyone else, had staked his political future on that bill. He toured the entire planetary surface speaking on it. If it passed, he would instantly become the fair-haired boy of Jebinose politics and would immediately introduce his manufactured trade issue in a bid for the Jebinose seat at the Federation Assembly. If it hit a snag, it would set his timetable back five, perhaps ten years.
It hit a snag.
And that’s when Cando Proska introduced himself.
Since then he had never had a good night’s sleep on Jebinose.
“That reporter is here, sir,” said his receptionist’s voice.
DeBloise shook himself back to the present and assumed a more upright posture.
“Send him in.”
A nondescript man of average build with dark blond hair and eyes that seemed to be bothered by the bright, natural light of the office strolled through the door and extended his hand.
“Good day to you, sir. I’m Lawrence Easly from the Risden Interstellar News Service and it’s an honor to meet you.”
Easly
EASLY’S CREDENTIALS as a news service reporter were the best money could buy. It was a useful identity, allowing him to roam and ask embarrassing questions. It secured him an interview with deBloise himself within the span of one local day – it was difficult for any politico to turn down free exposure in the interstellar news media.
He had done all the research he could on the way out from Ragna, and now he had the rest of the day on his hands. Danzer wasn’t too far away, so he rented a small flitter for a quick run to the little town. Jo had told him about her father’s murder there and he wanted to have a look… for her sake.
And for his own. Easly had approached the Junior Finch aspect of the Jebinose trip as he would a typical missing person case. His routine in such was to learn all he could about the individual in question before starting the leg work; he liked to feel as if he knew the quarry before initiating the search. In Junior’s case he had found that unsettlingly easy.
Old holovid recordings in the Finch family library were the starting point. There weren’t many. None of the Finches was crazy about sitting still for cameras, it seemed. He did manage to find one, a long one, recorded at what must have been a family outing shortly before the death of Jo’s grandparents in the flitter crash. The viewing globe filled with woods, grassy knolls, a pond, and for a short while, Junior Finch sitting under a tree with a five- or six-year-old Josephine perched on his lap. They were posing and the family resemblance was striking, especially since Jo’s hair had been lighter then.
But Easly’s eyes had drawn away from the child who had grown to be his lover and come to rest on Junior. He felt as if he were looking at a slightly distorted reflection of the adult Josephine, recognizing parallels that went beyond build, facial features, complexion. There was a whole constellation of intangible similarities pouring out of the globe: the relentless energy forever pushing to find new channels, the undefined urgency that so typified Jo’s character as he knew her today percolated below Junior’s surface even in the midst of pastoral tranquillity.
But not until the camera had panned to the right, placing Junior on the periphery of the visual field, did the uncanny similarity between Jo and her father strike him full force. Junior stood leaning against a tree, staring at nothing, his arms folded, his mind obviously light-years away from the family picnic. It startled Easly because he’d caught Jo hundreds – thousands! – of times staring off into space that same way, steeped in the same private world.
There were other recordings, and on the trip to Jebinose Easly had studied them, watching Junior’s every move. He found something immensely appealing in the man’s quiet intensity and became increasingly involved in him… fascinated, infatuated, haunted by the shade of a man he had never met, yet felt he had known most of his life. It bothered him.
The tragic course of Junior’s life saddened him, and annoyed him as well. What made a grown man drop a top
position with a respected firm like IBA, a firm presented with interesting, challenging problems on a daily basis, and travel to a place like Jebinose?
He smiled as a thought came to him: probably the same thing that made a nineteen-year-old girl forsake a life of ease and luxury to singlehandedly challenge the IBA board of directors and outworld conventions as well. He then realized why he felt so close to Junior Finch: Josephine, for all the adulation and admiration she lavished on the memory of her grandfather, had grown into the image of his son.
And now he was gilding toward the death-place of that son, her father. She had given him three names: Bill Jeffers, Marvin Heber, and a Vanek named Rmrl, or something like that. The first would be easy to find if he still ran the store.
He missed Danzer on the first pass, but circled around and followed a dirt road back into the center of the tiny town. Jeffers’ name was still on the sign above the general store, so he made that his first stop.
Jeffers wasn’t there at the moment, but a clean-shaven, heavy-set young man who professed to be his son asked if he could help.
“I’m looking for Marvin Heber,” Easly said. “Know where I can find him?”
“He’s dead. Died sometime last spring.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You a friend of his?”
“Not really. A friend of a relative of an old friend of his – you know what I mean.” Young Jeffers nodded. “I was supposed to stop in and say hello and see how he was. Oh, well.”
He strolled out onto the boardwalk. It was hot and dry outside and a gust of wind blew some dust into his face. He sneezed twice. Hard to believe people still lived like this.